Colours
by Miss Poisonous
Summary: A detective leads a colourful life...Fiesta, but don't let that put you off!
1. Green

**A probably overlong A/N to begin:**

I must be mad. I must be crazy. I don't know what has possessed me to start a multi-chap a week out from the end of NaNoWriMo. But here it is. Another idea, another fandom. I don't know what's wrong with me that I can't seem to stick to one fandom. God knows I never make things easy for myself.

Anyway, this is my first CSI:NY fic. I hope it's okay. It's a little experimental. Each chapter will be named for a colour and include one abstract connotation of that colour and one tangible, real-world instance of that colour. Some will be more obscure than others – prizes for the first to guess the right connotation! I'm thinking they'll be in the style of one-shots but will all fit together to form a larger story; I'll probably play around with point of view and that sort of thing too, knowing me.

I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!

P.S. Oh yeah, I'm in New Zealand, and the fifth season hasn't started here. So, for me, that Angell/Flack kiss does not exist. And I'll be sticking to that.

Colours

Green

It wasn't that Angell disliked CSI's. First of all, it would be completely prejudiced of her to suppose that all CSI's were alike to be disliked as one entity. And secondly, she really didn't dislike them. She worked with them just fine, and they were invaluable in homicide cases. She even managed to hold a friendly conversation with most of them most of the time. It was just the way the entire PD seemed to think they belonged on a pedestal equal to Olympus that really grated on her; the way people parted like the Red Sea when they arrived at a scene, the way they made their own rules and everyone allowed it, the way she was made to feel expendable around them. Angell hated being overshadowed, and she hated that on the job, they could do practically everything she could do. She wouldn't have a clue where to start in their magic lab, and she didn't want to, but she hated that she felt shut out of the place where all the answers they needed seemed to come from.

She hated the way she had to look after a scene until they got there, like she was some goddamn babysitter. She hated that she had to step back when they arrived, let them do their oh-so-important jobs. She hated that everyone in the force, including her own partner, who had worked with them forever, considered their friendship as some sort of privilege. She hated the way her partner got angry about cop-killings, but it was something personal if one of them got hurt.

It wasn't as if Angell was losing any sleep over this, mind you. It was just a little bother about a job that she otherwise enjoyed – every job had them. Well, every job didn't have CSI's, but she knew how impossible it would be to solve cases without them. She didn't dislike them. Really.

This is what she reminded herself of whenever she was called to a scene. They weren't always there, but when they were, she rattled off what she knew while they knelt beside, looked up at, peered down upon the body. Then they would lift their precious camera to their eye and she would make herself scarce, interviewing witnesses. She hated the way they made her feel like a witness herself sometimes.

"Who found the body?"

"Who's the victim?"

"Any witnesses?"

"Do we have a murder weapon?"

"Do we have a COD?"

Now that one was just patronising. Like they wanted her to make a stupid assumption and then prove her wrong and act all 'it's okay, you didn't know.' When they asked that, she felt like saying, 'You tell me, that's your job isn't it?'

That would go down a treat. Apparently they had quite the temper on them. Not that Angell never got angry; she did, especially with bone-headed suspects. But, well, she didn't have any complaints on her record, put it that way. Still, even that wouldn't knock them down a peg. No, she had to out-tough them now as well as outsmart and out-beautify them. Because right now, she could flirt all she wanted and still be invisible when they turned up on the scene. She had a shadow to step out of, and she _really_ hated that. Flack telling her she looked good in a vest just wasn't going to cut it, either. Close, but 'Angell, you are the best detective I've ever met,' would be better. Or, 'No woman's ever looked better in a vest.'

Well, for now she'd take what she could get, and do what she could. After all, he had never told them they looked good in a vest.

Angell had yet to meet a cop who didn't appreciate a cup of joe at the start of their day, and on a summer day such as this, she felt an iced coffee or two wouldn't go amiss. There happened to be a Starbucks conveniently between her and the crime scene, and if she had to slightly abuse her parking privileges, she figured she had enough good karma stacked up from catching murderers for the universe to let it slide.

She pulled up perpendicular to the crime scene – another alleyway, surprise, surprise. So many people got killed in alleyways; they should just be abolished. Angell would certainly never be caught dead in one.

Don saw her approach and waved her over, his face splitting into that devastating grin when he saw the two iced frappes in her hands.

"Angell, will you marry me?"

She grinned back, handing one over. That was more like it.

"Don't flatter yourself, Flack."

He led her to the body, and Angell's throat clenched.

"He's just a kid."

Flack nodded once, looking as angry as Angell felt.

"His backpack was lyin' a few feet from the body. It's full of junk; a few empty jars, a bike horn, a bent fork, a radio with no batteries – no ID."

"Don't suppose anyone saw anything."

"We should be so lucky. We're just waitin' for CSI to come and work their magic, tell us who this kid is."

She nodded stiffly.

"I guess there's not much I can do here, then."

"We're pretty secure," he conceded. "Sorry you got dragged out."

"Well," she shrugged. "I might check out the neighbours. Anyway, I doubt you could've stayed on without your morning coffee."

He grinned, his eyes drifting around the alley. "It's true."

His focus left her abruptly, and she followed his gaze, already knowing what she would find.

They got out of their shiny black SUV, magician's kit in hand. They were wearing green. She hated when they wore green. They saw Flack and nodded to him, making their way over. Flack nodded back.

"Hey guys," they said. "What've we got?"

"This ain't gonna be easy," Flack warned. "He's just a kid, maybe fourteen, and no ID, no witnesses."

Their face tightened. "Runaway?"

"I'm guessin' street kid. There was a backpack full of junk with the body, looks like his."

They clenched their jaw as they approached the body, shaking their head ever so slightly. Flack followed them, and Angell felt awkwardly like she was interrupting something.

They stood there for a moment, their green eyes sparkling. Flack was watching them, his face drawn with concern. He laid a gentle hand on their shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?"

His voice was so soft Angell could hardly bear it.

They seemed to come back to themself and gave him a shaky but determined smile.

"I'm fine, Flack. Just let this kid tell me who he is and I'll be fine."

He smiled back, not removing his hand from their shoulder, and they didn't move away.

Because she didn't think she could stand much more of this deep-eye-gazing, Angell started backing out of the alley.

"I'm going to check out the surrounding buildings," she said. "See if I can get any security camera footage of the alley."

"There's a couple at the entrance," they said, nodding. "If you can find out who they belong to, we might be able to see if someone accompanied our vic down here."

Flack nodded too, but his eyes were on them, as they would be until they both left the crime scene. They crouched down beside the body.

"Fibres in the wounds on the face, and some sort of brown trace."

Resigned, Angell walked out of the alley.

Mostly, she really hated the way they wore green tops that made their eyes dance and their skin glow and their hair come to life like the freaking Medusa. That was when Flack couldn't keep his eyes off them. Maybe hate was a strong word; she didn't dislike them. Really. But Angell didn't wear green well. She never had. And it seemed she'd have no choice but to wear it a lot more if she couldn't find another way to step out of their shadow.


	2. Yellow

I love Adam. That's all I have to say. Well, I also love reviews, but lucky for all you slackers out there, I love Adam more.

And oops, I forgot last time to say that I don't own CSI:NY. Or maybe I do…and writing fanfic is just my way of focus-grouping you all…at the moment I'm getting the feeling it's not receiving very favourably! Oh well, try and try again!

* * *

Yellow

Why him? That was the real question here. Why him? What did he do? All he wanted out of life was to look at interesting things under a microscope and beat the international high score on Warcraft III. And maybe someday have a good-looking girlfriend, if possible. Secretly, he wouldn't mind a better singing voice either, but that was definitely beside the point. The point was, he didn't want drama in his life. He didn't want to be a hero. He had no desire to be on the news. He didn't want scars from cigarette burns on his palms or his memory. And he certainly didn't want to be the one to tell Stella Bonasera that her vic had no hits in AFIS.

Adam had thought, perhaps foolishly, that being a crime lab tech would be the perfect job for him. Nice and indoorsy. Computer work, chemical analysis, putting pieces of puzzles together. Though admittedly the last one had lost some of its literal appeal. But otherwise, it was like all of his favourite classes in school put together. School hadn't been a highlight of Adam's teenage years – girls didn't think geeks were cute when he was a kid – but he hadn't had an entirely miserable time of it. He'd had a small group of friends, teachers generally liked him, and he looked forward to all his science, maths and IT classes. He particularly liked Biology with Ms. Stacey. But then everybody liked Biology with Ms. Stacey. All the boys, at least. Ms. Stacey was hot. Ms. Stacey was young and pretty and no-nonsense, and all the boys fell over themselves to do well for her. He was pretty sure Ms. Stacey had liked him, but he had also been slightly scared of her. He wondered now if fear of beautiful women was actually a clinical phobia, because he still found himself encountering serious brain anomalies in their presence.

Giving Stella bad news about her case was like getting a bad mark from Ms. Stacey. Her anger was possible, her disappointment more likely. Stella had the same appeal now that Ms. Stacey had then – only she was a lot scarier, in Adam's opinion. Even her beauty was scary. His own schoolboyish love for her made her even scarier, and the idea of disappointing her with anything even worse, but he was also scared of _not_ telling her and facing her wrath, so he didn't really have a choice.

Damn lab techs. Junior lab techs, that is. They were all a bunch of cowards. Anyone would think being promoted to the CSI department was a crime, not a reward, the amount of times it had been used against him lately. First he lost dibs on the freshest donuts in the downstairs cafeteria, on the grounds that he 'wouldn't be down there as much', then someone stole his favourite lab coat, and now this. Just because he worked with her more often now didn't mean he got off lightly with her. In fact, she probably felt more comfortable yelling at him than one of the rats she didn't know personally. Stella was like that. Their reasoning had been totally skewed. And that damn show of hands vote certainly had not been fair.

Adam ran a hand through his hair as he waited for the elevator. It was a nervous habit. One he should probably think about breaking, seeing as it made his hair look akin to a freshly-fluffed poodle. But he was too nervous to worry about that now. He had unsatisfactory results to deliver.

The elevator doors opened on the floor with the yellow walls and he stepped out, shuffling his feet in the direction of Stella's office. He really didn't want to give her bad news. He wanted to tell her that he had found a match in AFIS for the kid in the alley. He wanted to tell her the guy had a family who cared enough about him to file a missing persons report. Hell, he really wanted to tell her that it had all been a mistake and the kid had just been pretending to be dead for a joke.

He heard voices as he drew nearer to her office. Great, now he probably had to interrupt her in the middle of something important. Probably Mac asking for her opinion whether or not he should fire Adam. He shuddered involuntarily. God, he hoped not. Maybe it would be better just to wait until she was finished with whoever was in there. He didn't want to interrupt just to give her bad news.

Edging closer, it became apparent that it was Flack, not Mac in there with Stella, and they were arguing. Definitely better to skulk outside here for as long as possible.

"We don't even know if he's a foster kid, Flack. That bag could belong to anyone."

"Okay, so he stole it off a foster kid. I'm just sayin', Stell, it's a jump-off point. Shabby-lookin' kid dead in an alley, you gotta admit the odds are nice he's in the system."

"I'm aware of that Flack, but I like to let the evidence give me a _jump-off point_ before I leap to conclusions."

"Very funny. And it's not a leap, it's a logical assumption."

"Let's face it Flack, charging headfirst into things is more a strong point for you than logic."

Adam had just got close enough to see the pair through the window in time to see Flack slap his hand on the desk he was perched on. Adam leapt back out of sight, managing to suppress what would've been a terribly unmanly squeak.

"Don't go attackin' me because you ain't got the answers you want, okay? I'm just tryin' to do my job here, Stella."

"Well good, because I'm just trying to do mine. And my job is to focus on the evidence, not the prejudicial circumstance."

Adam was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him, and he jumped about a foot in the air when someone spoke softly right beside his head.

"Scoping out enemy territory, Ross?"

He gave both a sigh of relief and a roll of his eyes when he recognised Detective Angell. Now that he wasn't in school anymore, women just couldn't seem to let go of the gaming thing.

"I came to give some results to Stella, but, um– "

He waved a hand helplessly at the office.

Angell cocked her head slightly, listening to the raised voices inside. She rolled her eyes too.

"God, at it again are they?"

Adam nodded. Angell gave a world-weary sigh.

"Well, can't say I really want to involve myself in that," she said, flicking a strand of hair back behind her ear. The ribbon keeping her loose ponytail in place caught Adam's eye. It was a light yellow, and looked very, well, pretty against her glossy brown hair.

Catching him staring, she raised an eyebrow.

"Got a problem there?"

"Um, no. I was just, um – that's a nice ribbon. In your hair, I mean."

She grinned full-wattage at him. He felt a rather embarrassing urge to giggle.

"Thanks, Ross. I pulled it off my Starbucks compilation. Had nothing else to tie my hair back with."

"Oh. Well, it's, um, pretty."

She did that smile thing again. Help, was he blushing? Please don't let him be blushing.

"You're sweet. Oh hey, you wouldn't mind giving these to Flack for me would you?"

Dazed, he answered, "Sure."

"Thanks."

She placed several videotapes in his hands. He stared at them, unsure how they'd ended up there.

"Well, I'll see you round, Ross."

"Yeah, yes, I will. I mean, see you."

He was pretty sure he was blushing now. And why had he agreed to deliver her tapes for her? He watched her go, the yellow ribbon slipping further down her shiny ponytail. Stupid yellow ribbon. It had distracted him. Why could he not say no to anyone?

"Look, I know these cases are hard going," came Flack's voice from Stella's office. "Especially for you."

"But we'll get them," she said firmly, in her Stella-won't-take-no-for-an-answer voice.

"Yeah, we will. I know that too."

There was a little bit of silence. Adam stayed where he was. He wouldn't want to walk in on a moment or anything.

"Have you got an ID yet?"

"No," Stella said. "I'm waiting for Adam to come back to me with the results from AFIS."

Oh God. Well, here goes nothing.

* * *

Just a clarification – Adam is not in love with Stella. He loves her in a sort of teacher-crush, friend, intense fear/admiration type way. But everyone loves Stella.


	3. Purple

Here it is! The next chapter! *the crowd goes wild* Well, allow me a little indulgence of the imagination… Anyway, sorry for the delay on this one. I'm not all that happy with it. Last minute NaNo writer's block, and it turns out Mac really does not like me. As Flack so rightly said, "Who knows what he's thinking?" I did my best to get into his head, not sure how well I succeeded. Thanks to those of you who reviewed and alerted, it is very much appreciated!

Still don't own. Think they'll sell for $17 and my favourite silk shirt?

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Purple

Mac wasn't exactly known for his patience with hierarchy. It particularly antagonised him when higher-ups more concerned with money and their own reputations stood in the way of his catching a murderer. But that being said, he appreciated his own position. Having just separated Adam and Detective Angell to send Adam back to the job he needed him to do, he knew the lab would not function without a certain chain of command. And truth be told, he liked being at the top. He had never been very good at answering to others, which was probably where his frustration with authority stemmed from. If this was Macbeth, and he was king, he would readily admit to having conflict with the Gods of the PD every now and again, but generally he felt the divine order, so to speak, was as it should be in the lab. He was needed to keep his team in check.

He did it pretty well, too, he thought. He checked them when they needed to be checked, but he wasn't averse to defending them, either, as was fairly well known. Danny, who had come close to derailing more often than anybody, he also felt compelled to justify more often than anyone, too. Lindsey's emotionally driven leaps of logic he had cut short more than once during a case, especially when she first joined the lab. But then he also turned a blind eye to her relationship with Danny, and excused her resulting negligence to more people than just Quinn. He had dared Gerard's wrath to get to the bottom of Hawkes' supposed criminal actions, and Flack he defended perhaps more readily than anyone, considering the role he himself had played in the question of Flack's loyalty among the other cops. Stella he knew he should probably be a bit harder on. She was not exactly a hothead, but had a flash-fire temper not unlike his own, that had gotten her into trouble several times. She was also the only CSI below him whom he would allow to question and even defy his actions and decisions. Which she did. Often. But still, he couldn't find it in him to berate her for it.

From Adam's stuttered explanation for the delay of the task Mac had asked him to do, he knew that Stella would be in need of a little grounding. He didn't know if it was really a sovereign duty, but he didn't want her or anyone in his lab to question themselves. It was his job to question them if they needed it, and he didn't appreciate anyone taking his job upon them.

"Stella?"

She looked up from her computer. She gave him a rueful smile.

"Hey, Mac."

"I heard you're having trouble IDing your alley victim."

She sighed. "Yeah. It's just tough, you know, knowing that nobody missed this kid."

He wasn't sure what to say, so he put a hand on her shoulder. She held herself so tightly. He noticed her posture was always impeccable when she was upset.

"I'll never get used to that part. The part where people really don't give a damn about whether somebody lives or dies."

"Stella, _you_ give a damn," he said. "You, Flack, and Angell; we all give a damn, that's why we're here."

"I know that."

She didn't seem very comforted by this. At least, not that he could tell. She held her control like a queen.

"But he doesn't. Didn't, whatever. The point is, this teenage boy probably lived his life knowing that no one would care if anything happened to him. He knew that he was going to die, he saw his attacker, but no one saw him. He was invisible."

"He knew he was going to die?"

She sighed again, picking up the autopsy report from amongst the papers on her desk. He released his grip on her shoulder.

"He took several glancing blows to the head, neck and shoulders before the fatal blow to his temple. Bruising around his face suggests the attack was front-on."

Mac nodded. "He fought back."

Stella's eyes jumped to his.

"He fought back, Stella. He wanted to live."

She smiled, a watery but more genuine smile this time.

"There are a lot of people out there who aren't at liberty to file missing persons reports or call the police when they find a body. There are hundreds of people living on the streets who have the first care for themselves, whether or not the person they fail to report missing is a friend."

His friend shuffled papers on her desk, avoiding his eyes. He knew she preferred to hide when she could no longer disguise vulnerability with anger.

"Those are the people who care about this boy. We can't see them, but they are there as much as he was. You know perfectly well that family is not just who you are born to, and a man's home is not always his castle. That boy's family are the people who will be picking up whatever newspaper they can get their hands on, watching the news in shop windows, who have faith that you will find whoever did this to their friend. They are the people who will be crying with relief when you catch the person that did this."

He perched himself on the edge of her desk, his raised eyebrows betraying how pleased he was with himself for such a speech. Her eyes were glittering when she finally raised them to his, but she managed a small smirk.

"Wow. Who knew Mac Taylor was secretly a sentimentalist?"

"Any time you feel like letting that piece of information slip, just remember how much paperwork I can justifiably delegate to my second-in-command."

"Eye for an eye, huh?"

"Blackmailing you out of blackmailing me? I think it's only fair."

She stood, confident again, her regal smile back in place.

"And here was I thinking you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks."

He deigned to twist his lips up in a Mac-version of her own smirk.

"Now get back to work," he said. "I believe you have a murderer to catch."

She squeezed his arm in thanks.

"Hey guys, sorry to interrupt."

They both looked up. Flack stood in the doorway.

"Stell, I just got a call from the station, apparently they've got a guy there who claims he knows something about the body in the alley."

"There's your family, Stella," Mac said.

She nodded tiredly. Flack's eyes took in the way they were standing, Stella's hand that had just released Mac's arm, lingering on her face as though studying it. He fiddled with his tie; today a lurid mix of various shades of purple.

"Just thought you might wanna come and talk to him with me, but if you're busy, or you know– "

He trailed off, but his thoughts were easy enough to read. Stella obviously picked them, because she said,

"I'm fine. I think I can handle talking to one homeless guy."

Don caught Mac's eye, and they both looked away, hiding their smiles. Flack tugged at his tie again.

"Okay, good, you ready?"

"Yeah."

She touched Mac's shoulder, another silent thanks. Mac didn't miss the way Flack's eyes followed the gesture. He grabbed Stella's coat from the back of the door and helped her into it, now studiously avoiding looking at Mac. He held the door for her too, and Mac, amused that she let him away with it, followed them out, hearing Stella say as they headed for the elevator,

"Stop playing with your tie, it draws enough attention to itself as it is."

The detective simply treated her to one of his winning smiles, loosening the tie enough to pull it over his head. He put it in his pocket.

"Happy?"

"Very."

"Of course, all my professional, intimidating appearance will be reduced to a sham now."

"Flack, no one could possibly find that tie intimidating."

Flack laughed aloud, and she smiled, allowing him to guide her into the elevator.

Mac shook his head in subtle mirth. Who said chivalry was dead?

He went to find Danny in trace, anxious for progress now that his duty as far as Stella was fulfilled. More allowances made, he thought with wry resignation. She'd have the whole department in the palm of her hand if he wasn't careful. He might be the rightful king, such as it was, of the lab, but a lot of people sure treated Stella like she was royalty.


	4. White

Things are going to be a little more Fiesta focused from now on (sorry lily :s). I hope everyone enjoys, I'd still love to hear what you think!

I know there's a raging debate on white's status as an actual colour. Well, for my story, it is a colour, okay? Good, okay. Carry on…

I own nothing. Well I own several things actually, including all the situations, suspects, witnesses and dead bodies in this story so far. I also own my 50,000+ word NaNoWriMo novel! Woot! But not CSI:NY, so boo to nasty lawyers!

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White

Ask anyone, and they'd say there was nothing in it. Some would even laugh at the idea. Danny laughed too, at all the stupid morons who could possibly think there was nothing in it. Hard to believe they all noticed things for a living. Hard to believe these investigators and these detectives could so effectively skim over something glaring them right in the face. Who did they think they were kidding? Of course, by 'they', Danny wasn't sure exactly who deserved the challenge more, the sure-footed pair dancing so skilfully around each other, or everyone else pretending not to see. Well he saw, all right, and he wasn't cutting anyone a break who wouldn't cut themselves one. Danny didn't hold up much with denial. And he wasn't easily fooled, either.

"I'm afraid I'm not as easily fooled as your pals down the wharf, Jeffrey."

The pasty-faced man said nothing, but his look and his arched brows betrayed his curiosity.

"Thought if you'd got past them, you could get away with it, right?"

Jeffrey gave an insolent shrug, one which was contained mostly in his facial muscles.

"Well I've got news for you, Jeff. Those guys, they may be tough, they may be territorial as hell, but they ain't the brightest bulbs, you getting' me?"

He'd seen them leaving together today. Flack had opened the door for her. Actually held it open – and she had walked through, nonchalant as anything! She would've kicked Danny's ass if he'd tried any of that gentlemanly crap on her. Mac would never think of questioning her independence like that. Even Hawkes, arguably the most courteous of their male-dominated team, made an effort to tone down his natural gallantry around Stella.

She wasn't stupid. In fact, she was as far from stupid as it was possible to get. And Flack wasn't exactly a dunce himself. But the very idea that they could act so differentially around each other and think it meant nothing led him to think they deserved maybe a little less credit in the brains department.

"But you're not dumb, are you, Jeffrey? You knew exactly how to find your way into the mould down at the wharf. All you had to do was gain their trust, and they'd never think to question you."

The man tossed his greasy brown hair out of his eyes, giving him the patented, 'I don't know what you're talking about' look. Suspects lived for that look. Especially the guilty ones.

If Flack thought he was denying his way out of this one, he was about to be proved wrong. No way Danny was going to let this slide. He'd suspected for a while that his friend had been nursing a crush on his would-be boss, but he never thought he'd risk showing his partiality. To say Flack was scared of rejection would be an understatement. But Danny, for one, could see that he was finally pulling his head out of his ass enough to show the damn woman how much he cared. And be damned if she wasn't receptive. No _way_ Flack was getting away without a grilling on his sudden exhibitionism. He'd deny it, that was also certain, but Danny didn't mind. It wouldn't be a guy-to-guy if one guy didn't first have to beat the information out of the other.

"See, I think you know what I'm talking about, Jeff. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. Your wharf buddies believed you straight up when you lied to them about what was in the packages you were bringing in. Why wouldn't they, after all, you were one of them now, right? But Alison West didn't believe you. She confronted you. Threatened you. Said she was going to rat you out. That made you a little mad, didn't it, Jeff?"

"Hey, I never touched her, okay?"

He'd passed them again on his way in to interrogate Mr Jeffrey Hansen. Obviously whatever Flack had needed Stella so urgently for had turned out well for them, because they had both been sporting grins and were good-naturedly ribbing each other on their way out. He'd been teasing her about being a dog with a bone when she got a sniff of solid evidence, and she'd laughed, tossing her curls, and volleying back something about his fierceness with the informant and how maybe they were lucky he'd taken his 'intimidation tie' off, or he would've scared the guy right out of there. He'd guided her out of the door with a hand on her back. Danny rolled his eyes just remembering the spectacle. Okay, so he'd been a lot more obvious about his attraction to Lindsey, but at least he'd readily admitted to it. _They_ were acting like a pair of teenage flirts one minute, and were all wide-eyed innocence the next.

"No, Mr Hansen, you didn't touch her, but you didn't have to, did you?"

"Why would I have to? Snotty chick had nothing to do with me."

"No, and that pissed you off the most, didn't it? Some woman who didn't even know you, sticking her nose in where it didn't belong? Messing up your big plans?"

"What's a nosy bitch matter to me? I ain't got nothing to hide."

Danny shook his finger patronisingly. He had little patience for pretence. Maybe people didn't realise just how easily he could see through them. Sure, he had evidence, proof when he needed it, but he considered himself pretty good at figuring out when something was up.

But the thing was, they probably believed their own façade. Their own obliviousness was the most amusing, or tragic, depending on your point of view. They were neither of them experts in feelings, either having them or receiving them, and they probably didn't have a clue how the other one felt about them. If they were even aware of their own feelings – they were both pretty well acquainted with denial, too – they would've long ago convinced themselves of the impossibility of reciprocation.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, Jeff. You had something to hide when Alison came to the wharf looking for her husband. You had something to hide when she caught you wrapping your next stash of coke in those neat little packages. She threatened you, didn't she, Jeff? She said she'd go to the police, go to her husband, give you up to your new _crew._ Sticking her nose in where it didn't belong, right?"

"Should've minded her own goddamn business," the man grunted.

Danny couldn't help smiling. This slime ball's protestations of innocence were over. He knew just how to get the truth out of people, and once he had a sniff of it, he wouldn't let go. He was like a dog with a bone himself that way.

Maybe Flack would think he was butting in. He probably would. He'd probably tell him to take his own advice in romance if he felt like sharing it. But Flack didn't always know what he wanted, and that's what friends were for, after all – to open their friend's eyes long enough so they could see the inside of their own ass.

He knew Flack pretty well, he thought. Knew what he was like around girls, anyway. As smooth-talking as anything, he could charm a girl into his bed at the drop of a hat if she batted her eyelashes at him, but give the girl a piece of his heart and he became so sappy it was embarrassing. If Stella hadn't unwittingly pocketed Flack's heart, the man had a serious case of summer fever, because he charmed when he wanted sex, and romanced when he wanted more. If he wanted any more from Stella, he'd be sending her roses and learning to waltz. As for the woman herself, her lack of faith in love was fairly well known, and if she'd cut herself off from it so far as to not be aware of what Flack was doing, she needed to be reminded what exactly it was that courtship involved.

"So you decided to give her a lesson in that, right Mr Hansen?"

Coming to his senses a little, Jeffrey sat up straighter, crossing his arms obstinately.

"You ain't got nothing on me."

"Actually, Jeff, I got your fingerprints all over the pipe you used to bash Alison West's head in, her blood on the pipe and in the coke you spilled when you killed her. White powder on her clothes matches the composition of that same coke and the stuff on your shoes puts you at the scene. I got you, Mr Hansen, and you better be glad it was me that got you first and not your ex-buddy, Alison's husband."

What little colour there was in Jeffrey Hansen's sallow face had seeped out of it, but he stared Danny stoically in the eye.

"You ain't got nothing," he repeated.

Danny chuckled. "I think you'll find a judge and jury think otherwise, Mr Hansen."

He left the room, satisfied to let the greaser sweat it out, but feeling it was unnecessary to sweat in there with him. The heat was cranking up outside, and a cold beer would be just what he needed to loosen Flack's lips. That is if his friend wasn't already enjoying a purely platonic drink with his curly-haired co-worker. Danny snorted to himself. He made a job out of noticing things, and anyone would have to be voluntarily blind not to see that their relationship was about as innocent as the white powder stuck all through the tread of Jeffrey Hansen's shoes.


	5. Orange

A bit longer and a bit more Fiesta-y than normal today, folks. Hope it fairs okay. Thanks to the three of you who reviewed last chapter, and if anyone feels like breaking out a bit and reviewing this one, that would make a lovely birthday present!

(Shameless beg for reviews, I know. But it really is my birthday!)

If someone wants to give me CSI:NY as well, that would be an even better present. If not, I guess I'll go through another year of not owning…sigh. Enjoy the chappie!

Orange

It was hot. No, it was scorching. Water from drink bottles poured into hair and shaken off evaporated the second it hit the pavement. Sweat dried on skin before it could do its job and cool the skin down. Men went shirtless and women wished they could. The sun gleamed off buildings and winked off sunglasses. People panted, people stank, people fanned themselves, desperate for a cool breeze, and people who were no longer people rotted at three times the normal rate.

It was a busy day, and Danny was wearing shorts and a wife-beater. Even for him this was a far cry from professional attire, but the answer he gave to anyone who commented was that they were lucky he wore anything at all. It was Lindsay replying that she wouldn't call that lucky that stopped that particular line of enquiry.

Don had been one of the first to comment on his friend's questionable work clothes – "We weren't allowed no open shoes in our high school lab, Messer" – but he was entirely envious, if truth be told. He had worn a suit today, as he always did on the job, and right now he was fervently wishing he were as lax as Messer about work clothes. He'd ditched his tie and jacket before the sun was even properly up, but his suit pants were giving him hell and sweat was starting to soak through the back of his shirt. He would probably have taken his shoes off if he weren't in the lab. High school etiquette aside, there was no way he would risk standing in any of the variety of mysterious substances that could end up on the lab floor.

It was nearly noon and the sun was only climbing higher outside. He strode through the lab, fanning himself vigorously with a collection of stills from a security camera out the back of a sushi restaurant. He was hoping the CSIs had something damning they could spring on the guy in interrogation along with his stills. Anything to make their talk with the suspect go as quickly as possible. It was all very well wanting them to sweat it out in there, but on a day like today, non-air-conditioned rooms should be punishable by law.

"Flack."

Flack turned around, and stared. He was pretty sure he managed to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't be certain. Mac was wearing a t-shirt. Mac. Mac Taylor. A t-shirt. It wasn't even black; it was light grey.

"Aren't you hot?' Mac said, a shadow of a smile on his face.

"Yeah, I am. You're wearing a t-shirt."

"Yeah."

"It's a grey t-shirt."

"Oh good, I was just hoping to find someone who could tell me what colour my shirt is," Mac said dryly.

"Mac, I didn't even think you owned a t-shirt that wasn't black."

Mac shrugged, looking down at his t-shirt pointedly.

"But you're at work," Flack said. "You always wear suits to work."

Mac raised an eyebrow. Flack flung his hands up dismissively.

"I'm just sayin'."

"Flack, it's 112 degrees outside. You might wanna consider a t-shirt yourself."

He walked away, smirking.

"By the way," he said over his shoulder. "I think Stella's got something for you."

Excellent. He wound his way through the beehive, and found Stella in trace, looking pleased with herself.

"How can you stand that thing?" he asked by way of greeting, gesturing to her lab coat. It made him hot just looking at it. Not that kind of hot. _She_ was hot…stop it, you idiot!

"Fashion and necessity," she returned, her jaw a sharp line as she lifted her chin challengingly.

"Did you know even Mac is wearing a t-shirt today?" he asked quickly.

Thankfully, she smiled.

"I know. A grey one."

"Yeah, could hardly believe it myself. Did you buy that one for him, I'm sure he never bought anything except black."

"No, he probably had it in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. Not even Mac could wear black today."

He pulled at his shirt collar ruefully, thinking of the black jacket in his car that matched his black suit pants.

She was grinning a great big Stella grin at him, a damn infectious one at that.

"That looks like good news," he said, placing the stills on the table, grinning widely himself.

"I found trace of fish oil, salt and paint thinner on the vic's clothes," she told him. "The brown trace Sid pulled from his head wounds turned out to be paint."

"Right, so he was hit with something freshly painted? Is the fish oil and that enough to implicate the guy from the sushi restaurant?"

"No, unfortunately the same substances could have been picked up on the floor of the alley, during the struggle."

"So…our only suspect was implicated by a homeless guy saying he had a beef with the vic, and his fingerprints being on a jar in the kid's backpack."

"And for all we know it could have been a jar from his restaurant that our vic picked up after it had been thrown away."

"Right. So why are you smiling?"

"Because the paint thinner is not from the alley. And since there was no blood at the scene, I would guess that the paint thinner came from wherever the vic was killed."

She was beaming, and he couldn't help grinning right back at her.

"You're killin' me here."

"Do you remember what Detective Angell said about the empty shop backing onto the alley?"

"Yeah, she said it had been closed for months, but it was just being fixed up. Thought it might have been where our vic was sleepin'; she talked to a couple of painters, they said they were always chasin' squatters out – "

The light clicked on in his head.

"I'm drivin'."

Grinning triumphantly, she shed her lab coat, pulling her hair out of its ponytail. He nearly choked on his tongue. She was wearing a bright blue singlet, which, true to Stella form, not only scooped terrifyingly low but practically shelved her breasts into his line of sight, begging to be freed. He forced his eyes down before she caught his look and clocked him one, but down was even worse. Her legs went on for miles under the skirt she was wearing, quite a lot shorter than he was used to. So easy to imagine it hiked up around her waist…Goddamnit, shut up!

"Flack?"

He met her gaze warily. Her eyebrow was raised and her eyes were daring him to comment.

"Hot, right?" he said lamely. He wanted to kick himself.

"Sorry, I'm going to make you look bad," she said, waving a hand over her outfit. He was very proud of himself for managing not to follow her hand with his eyes.

"Never, Stell."

"Well, you _are_ widely acknowledged to be the best-dressed cop in New York City," she said, her voice taking on that playful tone again. "Working with you puts a lot of pressure on a girl."

"Aaw, I think you set me off just right. A little dressin' down, a little dressin' up – we make the perfect couple."

Damn, did he just say couple? Shit, that damn singlet with its topping of Stella cleavage had his brain all fried. Focus, jerk, and talk to her _face._

She just laughed, and he found himself praising someone for his luck and her lenience.

"Let's go," she said, leading the way.

He could swear it was even hotter now than when he'd entered the lab. His back stuck to his shirt and his shirt stuck to his seat, and he was so on edge from trying to watch the road and not Stella's crossed legs that when the empty shop at the back of the alley turned out to be locked and painter-free, he slammed his palm against the door in agitation.

"Goddamnit. Reckon we need a warrant to break in?"

He was only half joking, but she smiled anyway.

"We'll need to hang around until they get back," she said.

He groaned.

"You're kiddin' me."

"Afraid not. I need to test the place for blood before we do anything. Paint thinner isn't enough to arrest someone, and if we don't wait for them to come back they're likely to bolt."

He sighed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He knew she was right, but damn it, it still sucked.

"Why did they have to run off on their lunch break now? I hate painters. You know what, all tradespeople. I hate 'em."

"Especially the murdering ones, right?" she said, smirking.

"Exactly."

He turned his back on her, the sweat beading on her chest proving too much for him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, but they got too hot and he took them out.

"Come on," Stella said, tugging gently on his arm. "We'll find a bench and get some stakeout supplies. I always let you eat on stakeout, don't I?"

"It's too hot to be on stakeout today!" he whined.

"Don't be such a baby," she said.

He pouted petulantly, drawing another glorious laugh from her.

"Oh, stop it. Look, we'll get a Popsicle, okay? My treat."

There weren't any benches nearby, so she parked him on a shop window ledge, telling him to lose the puppy dog eyes before someone asked how much the doggy in the window was. She went in to a shop on the corner and came out with two orange Popsicles.

"It's such a nice day, isn't it?" she said cheerfully, perching next to him.

He stared at her.

"What? I love summer."

He stared at her. She rolled her eyes, swiping damp curls out of her face.

"Eat it quick, or it'll melt," she warned.

He obeyed, and was involved in catching all the drips with his tongue until he made the mistake of glancing at Stella, and his tongue nearly fell out onto the sidewalk.

Her lips were stained a reddish-orange, shiny and delicious looking, and when, God help him, she flicked her tongue over the Popsicle, he saw it too was stained. He suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable, and it was nothing to do with the heat. Though it _had_ gotten a lot hotter all of a sudden. He pulled at his shirt collar again. He just wanted to rip it off. Oh save him, she missed a drop and it fell, landing below her collarbone and running down, oh hell, any more down was going to kill him. She felt it and caught it with a finger, wiping up the sticky trail and depositing it in her mouth, finger and all, well of course finger and all, how else would she do it, anyway, she wiped juice off her chest and licked it off her finger, and that was the long and short of it.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to attract her attention and think about something as far away from Stella and her Popsicle as he could get. Okay, let's see, Basketball. Sweaty socks. Danny's feet. Toenail clippings. Danny's toenail clippings.

"Flack, you're dripping."

He felt something land on the front of his shirt.

"Shit."

He attempted to wipe away the orange stain, but only served to spread it in more. Stella laughed softly.

"Finish up," she said, running the stick over her tongue, and then cleaning off each of her fingers in the same manner. "I think I see our boys heading this way."

She got to her feet, perfectly oblivious that her little cleaning ritual had undone all the good work Danny's toenail clippings had done.

"You know what, I think I'm about had it with the Popsicle," he said, and dropped the half-melted nightmare in the trash.


	6. Pink

Sorry for the wait on this. I've been feeling a bit discouraged from the lack of reviews for the last couple of chapters, but I'm afraid I will not be deterred. Push on, push on! Virtual high five to lily moonlight, fellow discouragee, though she has totally no reason to be ;) Anyway, yay, finally a Stella POV!

Oh, and as I probably won't post again until after the 25th, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

**Disclaimer:** Je ne posséde pas le CSI:NY, et je ne posséde pas 'Le Soir Avant Noel' non plus. And those French classes cost me a chunk of student debt, so if you sue, you'll get some French curses, and nothing else.

* * *

Pink

It wasn't like her to hide from her problems. But she figured technically she wasn't hiding from her problems, she was hiding from her friend. And it was very like her to hide from her friends. It wasn't all that much of a problem, anyway. Nothing she couldn't handle. She would handle it, on her own as she always did, if she could just escape Lindsay's knowing looks long enough.

She was currently hiding down in the morgue, looking over Sid's autopsy report on her alley victim. Not that she didn't know it by heart already, but she was going to read it anyway, because she wanted to avoid Lindsay as long as possible. It was ridiculous, not to mention childish, and she knew it.

After reading the file through an indistinguishable number of times, she decided to take another look at the body. She knew it would only serve to disturb her – with all the emotion already bubbling at the surface on this case, seeing the boy lying blue-lipped on a slab with a y-incision in his chest would only make things worse. Always better in cases like these not to put faces to names, even if this kid didn't have a name yet. But maybe she wanted to be disturbed. Maybe, sick as it made her seem, she needed the stark melancholia of her job to distract her from the reason why she was engaging in a frivolous hide-and-seek with her co-worker.

She wandered over to the refrigerated storage, report in hand, but she didn't get a chance to open John Doe jr.'s drawer before a voice almost startled an unforgivably girlish squeal out of her.

"I assure you I've been taking good care of him."

Heaving in a breath, she turned around slowly, all outward calm.

"I would never think otherwise, Sid."

"Of course not."

He was giving her that affectionate look he sometimes gave her, but his eyes were large and knowing behind his glasses. Oh great, not him too.

"Sorry," she said, trying to edge away from the fridges and past Hammerback. "I just wanted to look at him."

He tutted at her.

"I know, stupid, right?"

Edge edge. Unfortunately Sid seemed to be edging with her.

"I used to know a kid, before my wife and I were blessed with our own – "

He noticed her expression, and added quickly.

"Oh don't worry, this doesn't have a punchline."

She nodded warily.

"He was a foster child who lived in my neighbourhood. I saw him nearly every day – he didn't get along with his foster brother and spent a lot of time out on the street, playing. We developed quite the rapport."

Normally Stella didn't have a lot of patience for Sid's anecdotes, but she was willing to listen to anyone who wasn't going to try and talk to her about…well, anyway, she was up for any distraction at this point.

"We lived in the same neighbourhood for several years, and as he grew older he spent less time drawing on the sidewalk, and I saw him less. My wife and I decided to buy a house together, and the weekend before we moved out, I went to look for Miles – that was the boy's name."

Stella nodded again, smiling.

"I didn't know where he lived, so I called on many apartments until I found the woman who had been Miles' foster mother. She would tell me nothing more than that he no longer lived with her. I assumed he had either run away or run into some trouble, and though I was sorry not to have had a chance to say goodbye, I quickly forgot him in the flurry of moving. I never knew what became of him."

Stella raised an eyebrow. She had expected more of a conclusion that that. Sid smiled that knowing smile again.

"Until a few weeks ago, when I ran into him as I was buying opera tickets."

He chuckled lightly at Stella's shocked expression.

"My surprise was all the greater. He is a young man now, barely the same orphan boy who engaged me in conversations on the street. He was carrying a cello, and it turned out he was a member of the orchestra for the very opera I was buying tickets for. He had left his foster mother's care to enrol in jazz school – which she didn't approve of. He is very happy, earns a fair wage, and offered to introduce my wife and I to some of the cast when we came to the opera."

Stella sighed.

"That's nice," she said sincerely.

"It does happen, Stella. Our line of work only lets us see the unhappy endings, but there are happy endings out there too, even for people like Miles, and yourself."

She was startled, but managed to recover fairly well.

"I think I'm a little old to be hoping for a prince that will one day turn me into a princess, Sid," she said good-naturedly.

He was giving her that fatherly smile again.

"Maybe if you insist on hiding down in the morgue with the corpses and I. Allow me to escort you back to civilisation. I haven't had my morning coffee yet."

* * *

Sitting side by side with Sid in the break room, drinking coffee and thinking about Miles the foster child's fairy tale ending, Stella completely forgot about being vigilant in avoiding Lindsay. And considering the break room was one of the least private places in the entire lab, it wasn't surprising that Lindsay found her quarry some five minutes after she had sat down with Sid.

"There you are, Stella – don't even try running away from me again!"

As Stella had leapt to her feet the moment Lindsay had entered, her attempt at innocence was less than convincing.

"Oh, were you looking for me, Lindsay? Do you have some information on a case?"

Lindsay gave a very loud, uncouth snort that could only have come from an ex-country girl.

"Stella, you promised, even if you have been hiding from me all day, and I am not letting you get away this time."

She strode over and caught Stella's arm in a death grip, despite Stella's advantages of height and sharper stilettos. Stella looked to Sid for help, but he drained his coffee quickly and stood.

"Excuse me, ladies, Mr Harrison and his sharp force trauma await."

He skirted around the pair, deftly tossing his empty cup in the bin.

"I'll get you for this, Hammerback," Stella growled.

He pretended not to hear, and Stella had no choice but to allow Lindsay to drag her away to her office.

Lindsay shut the door behind them and pushed her friend rather forcefully into a chair.

"You know, Lindsay, I have a lot of work to do – "

Lindsay shook her head violently.

"No, no, you're not getting out of it this time. You promised you'd tell me everything."

"Really, there's nothing to tell."

Again, Lindsay shook her head. Or maybe she hadn't finished shaking it from last time.

"Try again."

"You're making something out of nothing, Lindsay. I think we're a bit old for girly who-likes-who gossip, don't you?"

An alarmingly wide grin now accompanied the shake of her head. Grasping at straws, Stella said,

"Look, I told Mac I'd show him the autopsy report," which she somehow still had in her hand, "So maybe I can catch up with you later?"

"No way. If you had something to show Mac you wouldn't have been drinking coffee with Hammerback. Mac's not even on your case, so a friend-to-friend consultation with him can wait until after _this_ friend-to-friend consultation. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Flack, or am I going to have to torture it out of you?"

Stella felt her cheeks heat up and bent her head, hiding in her curls.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lindsay."

She could practically hear the lioness grin in Lindsay's voice.

"You're blushing."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. Bright pink."

"Olive skin does not blush."

"You always find a way to be different."

"Okay, okay!" Stella flung her hands up in frustration and embarrassment, letting her hair swing away from her face. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to admit you have a crush on Flack."

Stella spluttered, then laughed a little too loudly.

"I do not have a crush on Flack."

"You promised."

Stella was beginning to think she should have shot herself rather than promise Lindsay to tell her everything.

"There is nothing between Flack and I, Lindsay, really."

"But you want there to be."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because of the way you looked when you said there was nothing between you."

She met Lindsay's eyes, to find them looking at her in that infuriatingly wise way. She looked away, knowing she was definitely blushing now.

"What do you think of Detective Angell?" Lindsay asked unexpectedly.

"Excuse me?"

"Just wondering what you thought of her."

She didn't buy the casual tone any more than Lindsay had bought her Mac excuse, but she was all for a change of subject.

"She's a very good cop."

"Is that all?"

"What else do you want?"

"Do you think she's pretty?"

"What?"

Lindsay shrugged. Frowning suspiciously, Stella slowly answered,

"If you like the type."

"She's quite a flirt, isn't she?" Lindsay pressed.

"Are you trying to tell me Angell's been hitting on you, Lindsay?"

She laughed. "I just remember being jealous of how she joked around with Danny. But maybe she's like that with all the men she works with, I mean they are mostly men at the precinct. Is she flirty with Don, do you think?"

"I guess so, but as you say, she could be like that with everyone."

Lindsay had that slightly frightening smile on again. Stella went over what she'd just said in her head, hoping it wasn't anything damning.

"Mmm. Do you think she's Don's type?"

Stella stood up before Lindsay could stop her.

"I don't know, really, none of my business. Look, I've got to get back to work."

"Stella, I only want you to admit your feelings for Flack for your own good. Anyone can see the way he looks at you, and you'll never know unless you give it a shot. You two could be really good together."

"Lindsay, really, enough with the matchmaking. Don and I work together, not to mention I'm nearly ten years older than him."

The younger woman nodded patronisingly as if in the presence of a five-year-old girl.

"Very well rehearsed excuses, Stella. Only a woman with a serious crush could know her excuses that well."

"I don't have – "

Lindsay's cellphone rang, and she answered it, grinning at Stella.

"Danny? Yeah. Uh-huh, right. See you soon."

She shrugged at Stella, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Duty calls. Do me a favour though; watch Flack closely next time he thinks you're not looking. You might be surprised."

She skirted past Stella and out the door, and Stella had just sat back down in the chair when she stuck her head in again.

"By the way, I don't think Angell's his type."

"Really?" The word was out before she could stop it. Lindsay smirked.

"Yeah. I think he prefers his woman green-eyed and curly haired. Oh, and Greek-blooded."

She spun on her heel and walked away, no doubt congratulating herself on her supposed victory. It seemed ridiculous really, that all this had been about trying to get her to admit her 'crush' on Flack. And she had been hiding all day because of it? It was all very highschool.

Nevertheless, she sat in the chair for several minutes longer, her brain a scratched CD of Lindsay's words. She stood up and left when she felt collected enough, determined to brush it off. It was nothing to dwell on; the very idea that she had a crush on Flack was ludicrous. Sure, the man was attractive, but she was much older than he was, and practically his boss. They argued all the time, they had next to nothing in common, and he would never even think of looking at her like that. Lindsay was trying to plant roses in a rock garden, that was all. There was no way she could have a crush.

It was far too girly.

* * *

Not too sure if I like this one. Please let me know if you did, my ego could really do with a boost!


	7. Blue

Thanks everyone so much for reviewing last chappie! Best response so far, I appreciate it so much, thank you. I guess a little sob story goes a long way! But, don't stop now. Seriously, you guys don't know how happy reviews make me. Please, keep 'em coming!

Sorry this took awhile – again. I seem to be losing my momentum a tad. Oh well, only about three more chappies to go! A bit of nasty language and implied nasty content in this one. Robert's not a nice guy.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing more than Robert, and I'll be quite happy to sign him over if anyone wants him. Single file now, and no pushing!

* * *

Blue

He just had to play it cool. He'd seen the cop shows, he knew they needed a confession, and all he needed to do was keep quiet. They were going to try to cajole him into giving himself away, shoving photos under his nose. Too bad he wasn't scared of a few mangled faces.

The chick was obviously one of them smart lab cops, probably didn't know a thing about being on the street. The guy was sitting back for the moment, letting the lady do the talking; just watching him with cold blue eyes. Probably he was figuring out if he was lying by the amount of times he blinked or some of that shit.

Robert returned his eyes to the lady cop; being that he didn't swing that way, she was easier on the eyes. She was damn fine, actually. He grinned at her, quirking his eyebrows. She raised hers too, but in a Dirty Harry 'make my day' sort of way, rather than any reciprocation of his charms. The guy leaned forward, and Robert nearly shivered, his baby blues were that icy.

"Pay attention, Bob," he said, his voice as cold as his eyes. "The Detective here don't like to be ignored, and frankly, you're getting on my nerves."

This dude was full of it. The scare tactics were way old. Any dumbass could see he was just trying to impress the bitch. The cool gaze melted every time he looked at her, and he became Mr Bedroom Eyes. Hell, Robert knew a pulling gaze when he saw one. They'd probably jump each other right here if he stayed quiet long enough. He smirked at the thought, not bothering to hide his appraisal of the chick. Now that would make all this shit worthwhile.

"Tell me something, Robert," Curly Top said. "Do you work out?"

Well hey now. Guess Detective Blues wasn't doing it for her.

"You know it, sweetheart."

"Take care of your body, don't you? Go to the gym?"

He gave her a nod and a wink.

"Les Mills, right? I think I've seen you boxing a couple of times."

"Hey, you can watch me any time you want, baby."

"Easy," Blues said, his tone frosty.

Robert shrugged. He couldn't help it if the chick was keen.

"Boxing can be dangerous without gloves, though, right? I mean, you could break your fingers on a punch bag if you didn't know what you were doing."

Robert leaned across the table towards her.

"I know what I'm doing. Gloves are for pussies."

The dude leaned over the table too, and the temperature in the room dropped a couple degrees. Robert leaned back, a satisfied grin on his lips. These two were a joke. They wouldn't get anything out of him. Baby Blues got up and stood behind the chick's chair, leaning on the back of it with one hand. She turned her head slightly towards him and a loaded look passed between the two of them.

Robert laughed loudly.

"Christ, I'm not getting in the middle of something here, am I? I thought cops weren't allowed to franternise! But I don't wanna be interrupting nothing, you sure you don't want me to leave you guys alone?"

"Hey Robert, I'm feeling a little low on patience here," the guy said, letting go of his hottie's chair and getting into Robert's face. Robert didn't lean back, keeping his cool.

"See, we waited a long time for you and your buddies to come back to the store. We had to wait outside, and it was hot out there, Rob. Then your good pals get so scared when they see me coming towards them that they tell me everything. They said the kid was your gig."

Damn, he should've known better than to tell those painting punks anything. They were going to be sorrier than the jar kid when he got out of here.

"They pointed us to your girlfriend's place, and when we get there, not only do we find your working boots with blood on 'em by the front door, we also discover you like beating on your girl as much as you liked beating the kid in the alley to death. Now, I don't like guys who beat up women and kids, and guess what, when I was chasin' you today, I ripped my brand new jacket on the fence. I mean what are you, some kind of acrobat? No, Bob, you're not, so climbing that fence was a waste of your time and mine. Now your wastin' more time makin' eyes at my partner here, so you and me, we got a problem."

Dude must think he was some kind of idiot. He could play bad cop as much as he wanted; he couldn't touch him in here. Speaking of which, Robert's own bitch was going to taste her apology next time he saw her.

"Cool it, pal," Robert said, grinning. "Just thought maybe we could all get to know each other a little better, huh? As long as we're all in here together. Seems to me like you guys already know each other _very_ well, you know what I'm saying? Got a bit of a head start on me, not that I blame you, man. I'd tap that."

He pursed his lips at Curly, and her pretty mouth twisted. Jesus, he could play these two better than a fucking piano.

"But don't feel too bad about your jacket, dude. At least the clown tie lives to see another day, right?"

Robert chortled at Baby Blues' expression. If looks could kill. The bitch put her hand on his arm. That's right, keep him under control, sweetheart. Wouldn't want another cop in anger management and another headline about police brutality. The cop looked down at her, and another charged look crackled between them. Actually, the two of them were headlines just waiting to happen.

Curly dragged her eyes away from the cop and looked back at Robert.

"You wrap your hands before you box, Robert?"

He smiled and nodded, feeling pretty relaxed. As far as riling him up went, they were doing a pretty amateur job.

"If someone as experienced as you were to get in a fight, you'd know how to avoid hurting yourself, wouldn't you? Wrapping your hands prevents grazing or fractures, and with less sweat gives you more control."

He nodded again. Maybe he should try it on with a smart bitch some time. It was pretty hot, her knowing all the technical stuff about boxing.

"What do you use normally, Robert, bandages?"

Another nod.

"And when there aren't any nearby, you just use whatever's lying around, right?"

"I'm a resourceful kinda guy, lady."

"Of course. So when you wanted to, say, beat an innocent kid to death, you just grabbed some painting rags lying around the shop, didn't you Robert? Wrapped your hands in them and laid into that young boy like he was your punching bag. But see, Robert, paint and fibres from those rags transferred into his wounds when you were beating him, paint that ties you to his murder."

"Hey, I never touched that kid," Robert said. "He wanted a job, he was always coming into the shop without permission, picking up garbage, trying to convince us we could use him. He probably got paint on himself."

"Right, Robert. He was trying to turn his life around. He wanted to earn a bit of money, and he knew he could be useful to you guys, and he started cleaning up the shop to prove it."

"But your painting buddies didn't want him hangin' around, did they, Rob?" Blues jumped in. "Maybe you didn't get paid enough and you didn't wanna share it with a no-good street kid. Maybe you were nervous he'd catch on to the work going on outside painting hours in that shop. You wanted to get rid of him, you told him to get lost, but he kept comin' back, kept persisting. He was starting to make trouble for you."

"Then one night he came into the shop, wanting to clean it up as a surprise for you guys, but he surprised you instead. He saw you with your girlfriend, Mary Ellen, saw you raping and beating her, cutting her. Turned you on, didn't it? Hurting her had got you hot, and then the kid walked in and interrupted, and Mary Ellen got away. The kid had ruined your fun and now he knew something. So you took out all that pent up tension on him."

Robert pressed his lips together. Stay cool, they can't prove anything with paint and fibres, just stay cool, don't say anything.

"What, got nothing to say to that, Robert? No witty response? Not very funny now, is it?" The cop circled him, finally stopping right behind him, leaning on the desk. The lady cop leaned on her side of the desk, surrounding him.

"The thing is, Robert, when you were busy torturing Mary Ellen, you slipped, didn't you? You cut your hand when that young man walked in on your little dominance game. We have the rags that you left in the shop after killing the boy; your blood on them, yours and his, and the fibres and paint on those rags was embedded in his face when you killed him. His blood is on the toes of your boots. Mary Ellen and your painting friends are giving you up, Robert. They don't want to cover you for murder."

Rage was coursing through him, hot and blinding. Sons of bitches. They said they would get rid of those wrappings.

"They wanted to be rid of him," he heard someone say, and he couldn't help but agree. "They were glad to be rid of him."

That's right, he thought. Those sorry bastards would get theirs for ratting on him, and that whore. Who the hell did they think they were screwing over?

"You know something, Robert?" Blues said, his eyes smiling. "I have a feeling they're going to be a lot happier to be rid of you."

The bitch gathered up all her little files and photos, and the guy placed a gentle hand on her back, guiding her out. His attention was fully on her now, his gaze on her back so adoring it made Robert want to scream. There was nothing more pathetic than a man in love too scared to show it.

She turned at the door, Baby Blues holding it open for her.  
"Did you know his name, Robert?" she asked. "Did you know the name of the boy you killed?"

Robert snorted. Fucking soft touch, this one. She couldn't handle anything harder than Officer Soulful there.

"Of course not," he said.

She nodded. Her expression was cold and hard.

"Of course not," she echoed.

She walked out, and Robert, his cool demeanour lost, his anger fizzing out of him like champagne, couldn't stop the taunt that fell out of his mouth.

"Hey, give her a good bone from me."

But he was no longer of interest to Baby Blues, and despite the condescending smile his comment earned, the love burning from him only deepened the chill that had settled over Robert's bones.


	8. Brown

Wow, not a great response to last chapter. Was Robert really that despicable? I feel very unloved. Oh well, I can still type through my tears…

Okay, so, bit of a time continuum lapse here. This one takes place during or right after 'Like Water for Murder', which quite frankly was an opportunity hard to pass up. So let's pretend that in between episodes (cause you know the CSI's have gotta be solving more than two cases every week, right?) came the jar kid and cocaine cases, and they were followed by the shark/chocolate/cab case. Good? Good.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned CSI:NY, I would not be getting very bored of writing these disclaimers at the start of every chapter. Also, I have a sneaking suspicion no one would watch it!

* * *

Brown

She asked if it blew my mind.

She had no idea.

The taste of the wretched chocolate lingered in my mouth for hours until I ate something else that covered the taste. Not what I wanted to eat most, mind you. Oh God, did I really just think that? Shit, she'd break my ass if she knew I was thinking like that about her. She'd break anyone's ass if she knew they were thinking anything like that about her without her express permission. Good thing she couldn't read minds, or there would be a hell of a lot of broken asses in the PD. Possibly more important body parts, too.

Her words stayed with me far longer than the admittedly very good taste of chocolate. They leapt to mind whenever I saw her, even after the chocolate guy was eliminated from the suspect list, and the case took a far more serious turn than sharks feasting on already-dead bodies. I couldn't stop the thoughts whirring overtime whenever her voice started up in my head. Thoughts that I could not let on I was having under any circumstances, not if I valued my working relationship at best, my dick at worst. Fucking pathetic. A little teasing comment, a joke at the expense of the suspect and I was all teenage wet dream over it. What the hell was that guy's problem, anyway? Giving her that stupid line in his stupid accent when we had come to talk to him as a possible murder suspect – emphasis on the 'we'. I could have been her boyfriend for all he knew. Yeah right. I wish.

Yes, so I'll admit it. I want her. I, Don Flack, want Stella Bonasera, my colleague, my superior, my friend – Christ now it sounds like fucking wedding vows. That'd be rich. Do you, Don Flack, take Stella Bonasera, to moon over and think filthy thoughts about as long as she remains far too good for you and your thoughts remain private? I sure as hell do. You know, something along those lines fell out of my mouth once when I was talking to her. That time I'd had the taste of chocolate in my mouth, too. Chocolate wedding cake. I should probably stop associating the taste of chocolate with Stella in my mind if I actually want to pass my next psych exam. The thoughts of her alone are bad enough; add chocolate and it blows my mind. Shit, there I go again. Can't she shut up in my head for even a second? Yes, Stella, it blows my mind. And you blow _in_ my mind.

Holy crap. I am dead. I am so dead.

See, I actually am losing it. Not just the fact that I'm hearing voices (and I don't know if knowing the voice in your head makes it better or worse as far as sanity goes), but I actually cannot stop thinking dirty thoughts about my colleague. That's what she is. My _colleague. _And my friend. Right, we've been through this.

The point is, it never used to be this bad. Believe it or not, I did used to be able to be in Stella's presence without the risk of it turning into a _very_ uncomfortable situation. There's the odd moment when she'll do or say something that makes me very glad I wear suits and not jeans to work, like that damn Popsicle thing, but mostly I know how to keep myself under control. I mean, I'm not fifteen. And normally things like stinking-ass dead sharks and half-eaten women's bodies do something to lessen the libido. But now? Don't get me wrong, I've always been aware of her attractiveness. Is that even a word, attractiveness? Anyway, I pretty much came prepared to be turned on from the locker room stories alone before I even met her. Add to her considerable looks that brain, that smart mouth, the fearless look in her eyes and that teasing smile and raise of the eyebrows she does with people she knows well, and I was pretty much doomed. In my defence, I think every man who meets her is a little in love with her. Possibly women too, who knows. Woah, woah, do _not_ go down that road.

In all honesty, it's hard for me to see how anyone could not be in love with her. But I digress. At least when I'm mentally extolling her virtues my thoughts are a little cleaner. Apart from that whole women in love with her thing. God, shut up, shut up. Anyway, this whole new thing where I'm constantly fighting a hard-on is all Messer's fault. Okay, not like that. What I mean is, the sonovabitch has suddenly got this idea that I need to fess up to my attraction to Stella (big mystery where that idea came from – Messer's never shown even the remotest interest in my love life when he can whine about his own). And he fights dirty. Good thing he doesn't have a clue how deep my feelings for the lovely detective go, or I'd probably be in a worse state than I'm in now. He starts harassing me, trying to get me to confess to wanting her, spouting off all the things he bets I wish I could do to her, and Goddamn it but now I can't get the images out of my head. I don't know why Lindsey wants a confession anyway, because if she's trying to get one (through Danny, possibly even more whipped than I am), she already knows what I'm trying to hide, and me saying it aloud won't do any good. Unless Messer had some sort of tape recorder on him, which he better hope he didn't. Stella would break more than his ass if she ever heard what he'd been saying.

I think I did pretty good at keeping the effect of Danny's little picture show off my face, though, because he looked all but let down when I made some excuse and left, and Lindsey gave me a very sour look last time I saw her. Damn miracle, especially when he started the one about me wanting to lick Stella from head to foot. If you ask me, any man who can keep his cool with that in his head deserves a medal. I would cash in at poker, I gotta say. I'd absolutely kill Stella. I could play her, but I wouldn't want to take her money. Maybe we could just play for fun. Of course there's always strip poker…

Goddamnit, you see why that whole mind-blowing chocolate thing is doing my head in? A few choice words from Messer and my brain turns into a porn channel.

The thing is, it's dirty. Not just in the figurative sense. I mean, it makes me _feel_ dirty to think stuff like that about Stella, like she was just any woman, no, like she was a cheap, easy woman. She's none of those things. She's so far from cheap and easy it's laughable to have the words in the same sentence as her name. And she sure as hell ain't just any woman. She is _the_ woman. She is the fantasy, the dream. She's all I want. But 'all' makes it sound like settling for something, like I could have more but choose to sacrifice everything else for her. 'All' is far too small a word for Stella. She is everything. She's everything I do and ever could want. She is a goddess, and she deserves to be worshipped, not dragged through the dirt of a bum cop's mind. Which reminds me, I should kick Messer's ass for saying all that shit about her.

Now these thoughts I can handle. Good, clean, worshipful thoughts; I'm sure Stella would expect nothing less.

"Flack?"

Oh shit. Flack to brain, Flack to brain, say something that isn't anything even close to the vicinity of head-to-toe licking.

"Hey, Stell."

Impressive. I should really get into poker.

"Did you hear?"

Uh oh. Please don't say Danny talked to her. She's not breathing fire, so he couldn't have. Unless she thinks he had some good ideas… no, no, danger, Will Robinson!

"Hear what?"

Somebody give that man a prize. I should be on TV with talent like this.

"The connection between Chrissy Watson, Ben Malvoy and Louise Perry. Looks like we've got a serial on our hands."

I nodded. She looked around, obviously wondering what I was doing here.

"Are you waiting for Mac?"

I nodded again. Couldn't think of anything to say. Unfortunately, she called me on it.

"Got a mouthful, Flack?"

Brain feeling a little like a toaster dropped in the sink, I shook my head, and then inexplicably stuck my tongue out to show her my empty mouth. Why, why did I do that? Thankfully, she chuckled, as if it was endearingly quirky and not just stupid. She produced a packet of chocolate and offered it to me. I smirked at her.

"Chocolate show?"

"Right," she said. "It was the smell, it gave me cravings. You're a bad influence on me."

I shrugged, grinning. No one will argue with that.

"So why not take some from the show? It was free and all."

She shook her head at me, smiling, curls swaying.

"Only because you took it, Flack."

I paused sheepishly, halfway to the proffered packet. She pushed it towards me, and I went ahead and took a piece. Hell, I wasn't going to say no. I'd take anything she offered me. I'd give her my balls wrapped in chocolate if that's what she wanted. Oh no, that's bad, very, very bad.

"I didn't want to give the slimy jerk the satisfaction," she said, once I really did have a mouthful and couldn't retort. Trying to guilt me, wicked woman. She should know food is my weakness. One of my weaknesses.

"Besides," she added. "If I'd said I wanted some, he'd probably have wanted me to eat it off his body or something."

Oh Holy Hell. So much for good clean thoughts – I swear she does it on purpose. It's a long way to fall from Olympus to the fetid filth of my mind, but knowing Stella, she probably enjoys the rush.


	9. Red

Once again, sorry for the wait. This one's sappy! Angsty! And long! And sorry about all the line breaks! Only one more chapter after this – I'll have it up before I start film school (yay!) in two weeks. Please let me know what you think! My ego may just wither and die if it doesn't get fed! Thanks to GoofyGal2008, xXxKissMeKatexXx and especially lily moonlight for reviewing and encouraging.

**Disclaimer:** I am a student, broke and bereft

My head's full of fluff and writing concepts

If I owned NY, life would be a breeze

But all I own is this poem, so don't sue me, please!

* * *

­­Red

It was all so screwed up. He was such an unbelievable idiot. He could win prizes if there were such things as stupidity competitions. He'd been told many times before, usually by angry girlfriends, that he was all looks and no sense. He'd taken it as a compliment back then – which just proved their point, really. Looks had been a lot more important in highschool than sense.

He should've known it would get her back up. He probably had known, deep down. Maybe he subconsciously wanted to piss her off. Which would seem even more screwed up if he didn't know how utterly gorgeous she looked when she got mad. Great, now he was stupid _and_ corny.

* * *

He couldn't have done it any better if he was deliberately trying to piss her off. He had to have known it would get her back up. She knew she was famously stormy, and she hated to be so predictable, but if she was completely honest, the righteous 'It's none of your business's, 'I can take care of myself's and 'Who do you think you are's had been a little for show. The last thing she wanted was to show any sign of weakness, especially in the middle of the precinct. Not just that, but the way he drew himself up and his eyes flashed in anger sent delicious and addictive tingles through her. No one fought with her like Flack did. Besides, she wanted it to be his business.

* * *

Not that it was any of his business, but the cop sniffing around her was a jerk. She deserved better. He probably should have said something along those lines instead of going all macho on her and seeing the guy off like she couldn't handle it herself. She was right, she hadn't asked for his help. Not that she ever would.

* * *

She hadn't even given the cop a second glance. She never did anymore. Scumbags hit on her nearly every day, one greasy cop was nothing she couldn't handle. Flack didn't feel the need to bite any of the suspects' heads off that made slimy suggestions over the table at her. She thought he knew she could look after herself. Or maybe he thought she might actually say yes this time. He obviously thought very little of her taste in men. Bastard.

* * *

He hadn't meant to slip in the dig about her taste in men. He'd never been exactly thrilled with any of her suitors, but he never meant to imply that their worthlessness was in any way her fault or choice. God, he was such a bastard. How could he have been so cruel as to throw that in her face? He of all people knew what she went through, how much it still haunted her, how she still tortured herself about it. He didn't blame her for walking out on him. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd slapped him for good measure.

* * *

She'd seen red when he'd thrown her disastrous love life in her face. She'd had to walk out before she slapped him in front of the whole precinct. She couldn't even manage a barbed retort about how he was jealous that she had people interested in her, and that she was one woman who wasn't interested in him. Which would have been a lie anyway, but her feelings didn't matter right then, apart from the fact that they kind of made it hurt more. She would have loved to hurt him back, but she'd been too angry to speak.

* * *

Just the knowledge that he'd hurt her was like a kick in the gut. It was a rusty sword through the chest, slowly eating his flesh away with infection. Knowing how he felt about her only made it worse. He didn't deserve her any more than any of the other scumbags did. No one was good enough for her in his eyes, except maybe Mac, if he could wake up long enough to see what was right in front of him. Man didn't even know how lucky he was to be so close to her. Don considered himself lucky to have her in his life at all, but she wouldn't be for long if he let this sit, eating away at both of them. He had to apologise, he knew that, and soon. All through his shift he'd felt like his insides were being chewed out – and this damn Cabbie case was giving everyone overtime. The second he clocked off he was going to find her and make things right between them, no matter what it took.

* * *

She was almost grateful of the overtime, as it gave her something to concentrate on while Flack's caustic words burned the back of her mind. The anger had mostly dissipated by now – it had been nearly a whole night and morning since their argument, after all – but it had left a bitter taste in the back of her throat and the hurt still weighed in her belly like heartburn. She wouldn't have expected it of him, that was all. She could imagine Danny or Lindsay or even Mac saying something insensitive without realising, but it hurt to think that was what Don thought of her. Maybe she was making a bigger deal out of it than it was – he hadn't suggested _she_ was untrustworthy, after all. But her failing to recognise Frankie and Drew for what they really were was a weakness she was deeply ashamed of, and she hated that he could obviously see that weakness too.

* * *

He barged into the lab with such force the doors bounced off the wall. He was acting like a psycho; she has a hell of a lot of sense to not want anything to do with him. Well, maybe that was a little dramatic – he was nothing compared to Frankie. And she hadn't said she didn't want anything to do with him. Yet. Oh God, where was she?

* * *

She was wandering absently back from Trace after getting nothing off any of the gravestones at the church. She never wandered, and even if she did, it would never be absent wandering. Stella was always present outside her mind (except when she was asleep, of course), and she always walked with purpose. Anyway, she was wandering absently towards Mac's office, her mind on other things (Flack), when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with him. Flack, that is. Her heart somehow leapt and plummeted simultaneously. He was visibly agitated and seemed to be in a tearing hurry. Assuming he had found out something important about the Cabbie Killer, she said,

"What've you got?"

He made as if to grab her arm, and she tensed, but he stopped himself, looking wretched.

"We need to talk, Stell," he said lowly.

"I was just on my way to Mac's office, you can tell us both together."

"No, not about the case."

Her brain clicked over.

"I have a lot of work to do, Flack," she said tightly, hoping he hadn't noticed her absent wandering.

"Please, Stella, just hear me out."

It wasn't often he left the extra 'a' on the end of her name any more. Still, his seriousness didn't make her any keener to talk about it.

"Another time."

"No, we need to do this now."

Before she could stop him, he was carefully but insistently steering her through the nearest door.

* * *

"Is this one of those stories with the happier ending?" she said snidely, upon finding herself in the men's bathroom. Luckily, it was empty.

"Just wanted a little privacy," he said, leaning against the door. She arched an eyebrow ironically, and he took his cue.

"Stell, what happened last night – "

He cringed at his choice of words. Dickhead.

"I mean, back at the station – I was way outta line."

"Yes, you were."

"I didn't mean to step on your toes, but the guy is a jerk-off."

"And you didn't think I could take care of him myself?"

"No, Stell, I know you can. I just didn't think."

"Obviously."

She wasn't going to help him on this, but at least she wasn't slapping him and storming off.

"You don't need dirtbags like him drooling all over you, that's all."

"I don't believe that's your decision to make."

"You don't have a clue what he's like," Don started exasperatedly, but stopped at the dangerous flash in her eyes.

"Flack, who I see and what I do with them is my business, and what you may think of them and of me is yours, but don't you _dare_ pass judgement on me because of what you think you know. I never asked for your help, and what I told you was for the benefit of the case. Don't even think you can hold that over my head."

Her words sent an ache through his heart and dissolved the filter from his brain to his mouth.

"God, Stell, I care about you so much, I would never hold that over you, never. I didn't mean to say it, it just slipped out, I swear, I have always valued the trust it took for you to talk to me about what happened. You have a beautiful heart, Stell; Frankie, Drew, they're no part of you except what makes you stronger. You deserve to be loved by a good person, that's all I was thinking when I told Patten to stay away from you. You make me so crazy sometimes, I say stupid stuff, cause I never get to say what I really want to say."

"And what's that?" she said sharply.

Someone tried to open the door behind Flack right at that moment, and he bashed his fist against it, bellowing, _"Out of order!"_

They heard disgruntled mumbling and footsteps retreating, and their eyes met again. He took a cautious step towards her.

"_I_ want to love you, Stell. I want to be the one who deserves you, even if I don't. I want you, Stell, I want to be there for you when you need someone and hold you when you won't let anyone else near and laugh with you when you're happy and cry with you when you're sad. I want to be allowed to touch you whenever I want, to stroke your hair and kiss you and make love to you. I want you, all of you, I want to be able to warn other men off you knowing you're mine."

* * *

There was a ringing silence.

"You son of a bitch."

He blinked, looking slightly shocked. He seemed to be waiting for more, but she couldn't find the words to speak, so he said tentatively,

"What?"

"You – you – how dare – how can you _say_ that, you arrogant, egotistical, chauvinist _bastard!_"

She flew at him, unable to stop herself, her heart pounding with anger and hurt and confusion and fear. She hit him repeatedly on the chest until he was forced to catch her wrists and hold her away from him. She struggled wildly.

"Get your hands off me!"

"Stell, Stell, what's going on, I don't – "

"How can you say that to me after all this? Is that the easiest way out for you? Do you just get into a girl's pants instead of apologising? What the hell makes you think you can lay claim on me?"

She tore herself free of his grip and he held his hands up defensively.

"I don't – " he tried again, but there was no stopping her now.

"What's the matter, Flack? Been too long? What suddenly changed that made me so attractive to you, huh? Was it the fact that someone else wanted me? You couldn't have me, so no one could? What gives you the right to treat me like I'm yours? I'm not yours, Flack; I'm not anyone's. I wasn't Frankie's either, however much he or you thought I was."

"Don't, Stella."

"What?" she cried, the tears daring to track down her cheeks only reddening her fury. "You can give it to me, Flack, can't you take it back? Or does that turn you on too? How long have you wanted me, since last night? Since you hurt me, is that it?"

"Stop it."

"No, no I won't. How long? If you really want me, really want to hold me and make love to me, then something must have brought it on, so what was it? How long have you wanted me, tell me that. How long?"

"Stop."

"Tell me how long!"

He met her eyes, sorrow swirling in them.

"A really long time, Stell. A really, really long time."

She shut her eyes, more tears spilling over. She wanted to crumple to the ground, leap and dance, run as far away as possible. When she opened her eyes he was in the process of reaching for her, but stopped, frozen by her gaze.

"Then why did you never tell me?" she choked.

His face was so full of tenderness she could hardly bear it.

"Because I was afraid. Just like you."

They stared at each other until her knees gave out, and she fell into his arms.

* * *

Before he knew it and before she knew it and before the man trying to open the door knew it, she was kissing him.

"Hey!" the voice shouted from the other side of the door. "Can I get in here?"

"Out of order!" Flack yelled again, tearing his lips away from Stella's. He looked back at her, caught an anguished look before her mouth was on his again. His back hit the door with a resounding thud. She poured all her feelings into the kiss, and he took all of it, giving back just as much. Her hand weaved into his hair and yanked hard. He groaned into her mouth, spinning her around so she was up against the door. He was desperate to be gentle, tender with her, but she was making it extremely difficult. Passion was threatening to swallow him whole. Oh, don't, don't think about swallowing.

They kissed with bruising force and he could feel himself rising to the occasion. He had to stop this, he would not allow this to happen in a men's toilet. He heard a thud of something hitting the floor as Stella tucked a leg around his waist. It gave him the wake-up jolt he needed.

"We have to stop," he muttered, managing to disengage from her lips but limiting that progress by moving to her neck instead. She moaned aloud, and his groin swelled further. He carefully pushed away from her. She moaned again, this time in protest.

"Someone could walk in at any time," he vindicated.

"Not with us leaning against the door," she said.

This sounded reasonable to him, which was a sure sign they had to stop before his brain stopped working altogether.

"We really should stop," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want us to do this here."

She was getting that look again, that fight-or-flight look, and he jumped in quickly before she could get her hand on the door handle or start yelling again.

"I know you're scared, Stell. I know you've probably got a hundred reasons why nothing should happen between us. But despite what you might think, and I don't believe you really do, by the way – this is not just something I decided to try to stop you being mad at me. This is not just a one-night-stand or me wanting to get in your pants. I care about you, so much, and I really want you to be happy. I think I can do that. Make you happy."

She was silent for a long time, and he came closer to her while he waited, unable to keep the distance now. He wrapped his arms around her waist and touched his forehead to hers.

"What was that noise?" he asked.

"My shoe."

Frowning, he looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, her red, closed-toe sandal was lying on the floor. He raised his eyebrows.

"They're new, and it's too hot for closed shoes," she shrugged.

She bent to retrieve it, and he stepped aside. She slipped it back on, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, raising her head.

"I'm sorry," he answered.

"I'm sorry I'm so screwed up," she elaborated. "I don't know how to do this anymore, Don. I don't know how to want someone, and act on it. I don't know how to be in a relationship. I've wanted you for so long, and now I'm already screwing things up. I'm so scared, I didn't know how to react, I was just so angry that you never told me before, when I might have known what to do. I don't know how to love, hell, I don't even know how to be loved any more. I don't think I can do it. I can't put my trust in someone like that."

"Stell, you already trust me."

Her eyes jumped to his. He gave her as much assurance through his that he could.

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry I hurt you yesterday."

"You didn't mean it."

"Just give us a chance, that's all I ask. We can work it out. We're good at that."

"We are good at that."

She closed the last few inches and kissed him softly. He smiled against her lips.

"See, that was good."

She smiled too.

"That _was_ good."

He was grinning like a fool, but he couldn't help it. This was the happiest ending he'd ever had in a men's room.

* * *

She knew she'd only said it in sarcasm, but she couldn't help thinking this was the happiest ending she could have hoped for in the men's bathroom.


	10. Black

*Edit made to Red – I forgot the physical red object! Oh no!

Here's the last chap. Yay! If you've been reading this far and haven't reviewed yet, I'd really appreciate you just dropping me a line or two and telling me you liked it – or not, but if you didn't it was kind of silly of you to read this far ;) If I get to 40 reviews I'll be very happy! By the way, kudos to anyone who spots the _Bones_ reference!

Dedicated to **lily moonlight**, for always giving me a wonderfully detailed/rambly review (you know I love it!), and sticking with me on this even though Fiesta is not her 'ship. You rock my world, lily!

**Disclaimer: **MissPoisonousdoesnotown,isnotaffiliatedwith,wishesshewasbutisnotmakinganymoneywritingaboutCSI:NY.

CSIandCSI:Miamisetsandbatteriesnotincluded. .Notaflyingtoy.

* * *

Black

None of them particularly like attending these black-tie events. It's obvious in the tense way they enter, the cool way they speak to people, the uptight way they behave. It's like being on parade, but without the honour that comes with dress blues. For this, they have to be tarted-up shiny cops. Cop dollies for the fat cats to play with.

This one was the mayor's prerogative. Publicity, and a tying up of loose ends for the press and the rich in the Cabbie Killer aftermath. All cops and CSI's connected to the case were required to attend.

Mac Taylor is especially antsy tonight. Understandable, as his dead wife's son was nearly killed by the Cabbie. All the poor man wants is to go back to the hospital, but he's stuck here.

His partner can tell he's anxious to leave. She's standing beside him now, arm looped gently with his. She's supporting him with her presence as she so often does, but she's also using him as a human shield from the constant stream of groping hands and bad pick-up lines she's been enduring all night. Their closeness is indisputable, and no one dares interrupt the handsome pair.

They do make a handsome pair. They are both wearing black, as is customary, and both wearing it exceedingly well. Her dress is a silky, shimmery material falling over her body like water, cowl-necked, backless and sweeping the floor. His jacket is tailored, no pun intended, and fits him like a glove. His shoes are shined and his shirt is pressed, and the royal blue tie stops the ensemble just short of funeral-esque. They are reluctant to be there, but it looks good on them.

She leans her curly head towards his, offering to make his excuses for him. He smiles fondly and gratefully, out towards the dance floor but meant for her. He says he can at least wait until she is asked to dance before he abandons her. She returns that he may not abandon her to anyone but one of their CSI's, as everyone else she's danced with has had his hands on her breasts or her butt within two minutes.

"What about Flack?" he asks, in what would surely have been a sly tone if he were a sly sort of man.

She is at once suspicious and defensive. She stares him in the eye, refusing point-blank to blush.

"What about him?"

"He's not a CSI, could I let him ask you to dance?"

He is still looking out at the other dancers while aiming his voice towards her, and there is a slight smirk on his face that belies his casual manner. The corners of her own mouth turn up as understanding dawns on her. He knows something has changed between the two, even if he doesn't know exactly how or what, and she knows that he knows, but they will not say anything. Not yet, anyway. They don't need to. They know each other well enough to know that she is not hiding anything from him. She just wants to be sure what is happening herself, before she acknowledges it in a language the rest of the world can understand.

* * *

Elsewhere in the room, another pair of investigators are congratulating themselves on a plot well executed.

"They're not dancing," he says.

"They will be," she assures.

"You're very sure about all this."

"Of course I am. I'm a woman, Danny, I know these things."

"Right, right."

After a pause in which she gazes around at the people in the room and he contemplates the tray of finger food drifting their way, she says,

"You wanted them to get together, too, you know. It was driving you crazy as well."

"No, no, I wanted them to own up to their feelings, that's all. Different. It's just Flack gets so pathetic when he's moonin' over a woman."

"So you don't think they belong together?"

There is a subtle warning tone in her voice that he has come to recognise, and he backtracks quickly. Rumour has it that this pair are expecting, and he's obviously the kind of father-to-be who will get out of bed at 4am and find the nearest 24-hour delicatessen when she's craving asparagus in strawberry sauce made from white vinaigrette.

"No, no, no, that's not it at all, I'm happy for them, you know that."

The number of 'no's tends to increase with the depth of the hole he digs himself.

"But how do you know they're even together? They've hardly touched or even talked all night, and at these kind of things Flack's usually grabbing every chance he can get to touch Stell. They're not even makin' their gooey eyes at each other when they think the other one's not lookin'."

"Case in point, Mr Messer. They're no longer mooning, as you choose to put it. They've obviously acted on or at the very least accepted their feelings. I would've been surprised if they hadn't after what you were saying to Don – he was driven to distraction, literally."

"That _was_ a good one. You should've seen him whenever Stella walked into a room the rest of that day. Looked like he was going to lose his mind right there."

"Or something else."

"Hey, hey, easy now."

He is flustered himself at the thought of leading her mind to Don Flack Jr.'s trousers and beyond. Her faraway smirk is fairly alarming, in his defense.

"It was brilliant, if I do say so myself. He wouldn't have been able to stop thinking about her all day. Stella was actually _hiding_ from me."

She is triumphant. He is impressed – understandably, since it is rare that Stella Bonasera hides from anything – and a little scared – also understandably. The smirk has still not quite faded.

She leans closer in a conspiratorial manner, returning to his earlier question.

"They've stopped making excuses to talk to each other or touch each other in a public place; clearly they've found an outlet, and they don't have to soak up each other's presence in places like this any more. Besides, Stella's walking around with that happy glow that a woman can only get from one thing."

He raises his eyebrows at her.

"Does Stella know you're interpreting her glow for the whole world?"

"Not the whole world, Danny, just you. And you remember what it's like when you first get that taste of the thing you've wanted for so long – you might even…overindulge a little, so you don't crave it again for a while?"

She is smirking again, but this time he seems to appreciate it.

"I'm Italian, Linds. My cravings are never satisfied. Wanna dance?"

A genuine smile overrides the smirk, and her face glows with it.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

As they join Detectives Flack and Angell, among others, on the dance floor, a curly-haired lab tech approaches his bosses, his face so red it looks likely to explode. They give him reassuring smiles, hers wide, his a little more reserved.

"Hi, uh, Stella, Mac."

"Hey Adam," says she.

"Enjoying yourself, Adam?" he asks, with a teasing note in his voice and a twinkle in his eye that only she knows him well enough to notice.

"Yes, yes, thank you, I am. Um, Stella, I was just wondering if, maybe, you'd maybe like to dance? Uh, with me?"

She smiles a big Stella smile at him, peaking his redness.

"Sure, Adam, I'd like that."

She goes to take his hand, but decides against embarrassing him further, and releases Mac with a smaller smile and a wave. He nods his gratitude and disappears.

She follows Adam through the dancers, passing Sid Hammerback dancing with his wife. He pauses to squeeze her shoulder and give her hand to his wife, who shakes it graciously. He bends his head towards them both, too much the gentleman to exclude one lady, and points to the band onstage, at a boy playing the cello. Her face lights up in understanding, and she nods, squeezing both his hands. She excuses herself quickly, aware of Adam waiting somewhat awkwardly for her.

She is visibly surprised by his footwork when they eventually get to dancing. He shares what is, for him, an embarrassing tidbit about himself, letting on how his mother pushed him into ballroom dance classes when he was a boy. She suspects, but does not let on, that he rather enjoyed the classes, and would have enjoyed them more had he not been ridiculed for taking them. Aloud she mentions her own dance classes, and they compare schools and eccentric instructors companionably, laughing at each other's stories until he is tapped on the shoulder by Don Flack. She is also tapped on the shoulder, by his partner, Jessica Angell, and the detectives wordlessly hold their hands out to the scientists. Adam inclines a little bow to Stella, and she dips a tiny curtsey, and they accept their new partners' hands. Surprisingly enough, he does not blush nearly so much at the familiar way Angell clasps his hand as he did when Stella did the opposite. He remains unshy as the music slows and Angell rests her head on his shoulder. He clasps his hands behind her back and leans his head against hers.

* * *

Mimicking their position, Detectives Bonasera and Flack sway gently to the music. He strokes her hair, happy to be within reach of it again.

"He has a crush on you, you know," he whispers towards her ear.

"Who?" she murmurs, suddenly sleepy in his warmth, wanting to be snuggling against him in his bed instead of on the dance floor, content to feel his breath rustling her curls as he talks and not really know what he's saying.

"Ross."

"Adam? Oh."

She says the syllable fondly, as though touched by the idea.

He is silent, and she is surprised to find herself amused at his territoriality, and not annoyed.

"I have a feeling he's more interested in Angell," she says into his chest.

She feels him move to look at them.

"Whaddya know. Lucky – "

She pulls back slightly, eyes seeking his, but he reads her movement and amends,

"Lucky her."

They smile knowing smiles, just slightly teasing, and sink back into each other.

They are silent for almost a whole song before she speaks again.

"You remember the jar kid?" she asks.

"Street kid in the alley? Yeah."

He says it offhandedly, as if it's because he remembers all his cases, but he remembers it for the way it affected her.

"I was just thinking about him," she says.

"Should I be jealous?" he asks playfully, and she gives him that smile he loves so much.

"We found his killer," she says after a pause. "We were able to figure out what happened to him, and why."

"Scumbag's been convicted," he tells her. "Thirty-five years for murder and multiple counts of rape and abuse. Seems like Mary Ellen opened the floodgates; once she testified, there were women lining up outside the courthouse to do the same."

She nods, seeming satisfied, but there's something in her eyes that makes him ask.

"What's up, Stell?"

She shrugs.

"We never found out his name," she says. "We found out what he was doing, what he wanted to do with his life, but we never found out who he was. If he has a family somewhere out there, they'll never know what happened to him."

He understands, and holds her close.

"There's more than one kind of family," he says softly. "I'm sorry to say it, but his biological family had nothing to do with him. They didn't know who he was before he died and if they cared enough to look for him, he would have had a name in the system. They moved on, and so did he, and that's okay. He had people, Stell. People cared about him, and that's the family that matters."

She presses her face into his shoulder and says nothing, and they sway together, him almost rocking her. He whispers to her softly enough that she can pretend she doesn't hear if she wants to.

"You have people, Stell. We'd always look for you."

She still says nothing, but presses him to her so tightly he knows she heard. He lets her hide her face, circling them around even as the song ends. He looks over her shoulder around at the other dancers. Sheldon Hawkes passes them, now dancing with Lindsey Monroe. He makes a hat-tipping gesture at Flack, though he is not wearing one.

"Don't even think about it, Doc," Flack warns. "This is my favourite song, and Monroe has two left feet."

"She just needs a steady lead, Flack, and I can see you're quite comfortable," the doctor returns. Stella lifts her head, composed once more, just in time to catch the warm, wide smiles her fellow CSI's are giving the two of them. They dance off in another direction, the younger woman actually quite graceful on her feet, and Stella looks up at Flack. He is smiling too, at himself for even thinking he could hide anything from these people.

"Flack, what is this thing between us? What are we doing?"

"You need a name for it, Stell?"

"I wouldn't mind knowing where I stand."

"You know perfectly well where you stand with me, Bonasera, and if you don't, you are in the wrong line of work."

She smiles almost reluctantly, a little frustrated that he can make her smile no matter what kind of mood she's in.

"I haven't told Mac what's going on yet, because I'm not sure I know myself," she tries again.

"Mac doesn't know?" He is surprised by this, knowing how close the two are.

"Well, he does, but I want to actually _tell_ him."

Now he's a little confused, but doesn't prod.

"So, tell him."

"I don't know what to say, that's the thing."

"That's the thing?" he grins. She looks away, unwilling to grin back but unable to keep a straight face.

He takes her face in his hands, and he's serious again.

"Are you happy, Stell?"

She nods.

"Don, that's not it at all, I just – "

"Are you glad we slept together? Are sleeping together?"

She nods again, not trying to hide her smile this time. He smiles back, unable to resist giving her a fleeting kiss on the lips. She flushes, but doesn't pull away.

"We're still good friends, and we still work incredibly well together, right?"

"Incredibly," she says lowly, and he slightly regrets leading her down that road.

"And you care about me, right?" he continues, trying to steer her back.

"Of course."

"So that's what you tell him. All that."

"What, that I'm glad we're sleeping together?"

He puts a finger over her lips.

"That we _care_ about each other, and we still work well together, and that you're happy."

She hears the hint of pride in his voice, and feels a rush of warmth for the man in her arms.

"I want you," she whispers, breathing the words in his ear.

He ignores the pulse that goes through him as best he can and replies,

"I'm yours."

He holds her close and she wraps her arms around his neck and snuggles into him. She_ is_ happy, she thinks, and relishes the feeling. She is a great believer in appreciating good things when you have them, not realising how good they were only after they're gone. They pull slightly apart when the next song ends, and she fingers his plain black tie.

"I love you all dressed up like this," she says.

He hears the words, knows she doesn't mean them yet, and doesn't mind, because he knows they're not there yet. He doesn't know where they are exactly, or where they're going. But he is happy in the knowledge that she is not afraid to say those three words together in his presence.


End file.
